The Road Home
by The Orange Lady
Summary: First fic ever by me! Set after The Fall. Could be read as pre-slash, but y'know, not really.


Sherlock found his way back to Baker Street on a Wednesday. He got off the cab a few blocks away, and walked the remaining distance. It had been some three hard years since he had last been at the flat, and he had missed it. Well, as much as he, Sherlock, was able to miss something. When he turned around the last corner he found that the street had not changed at all. To be exact the only changes were the new mailbox in front of 224A and that Mrs Hudson had set up new curtains in her flat.

His key still fit, and he sneaked up the nineteen steps to the flat. No one was there, as he had expected. The flat was cleaner than it had ever been. It was positively meticulously tidy. There was no stack of newspapers by the front door, the cushions and the blanket were neatly arranged on the sofa and the kitchen table empty. It didn't feel lived in – not at all as he remembered it. But there still was that smell he would always associate with the flat.

He went to his bedroom, and was not that surprised that it was completely untouched. Papers and photos were left where he had put them. Even the bed was still unmade from when he last slept in it. His violin perched on the desk, and, by God, he had missed it. His fingers itched to play just by looking at it.

A quick glance at the clock told him he had at a minimum four hours before John came home. That was good, because even though Sherlock was sorely tempted to just swing by the surgery and pick him up, he wanted to do things the right way. And he had not in the least prepared himself enough for that first conversation. In fact, he had many ideas on how the meeting would go, a bit too many. He had already played, and replayed, most of the scenarios in his head, but he still could not predict what was most likely to happen. It vexed him.

Officially he had been dead for three years and fifteen days. No body was found after the accident he had named "Reichenbach", but they still had a memorial service for him. John had flatly said no to a gravestone, even though Mycroft had insisted on it. Bastard. His brother was among the chosen few that knew of his continued existence, mostly because there was no fooling Mycroft, but also because he could be quite handy when it came to obtaining information. Of course, information could be gotten anywhere, but certain information – about John – was hard to get by from other sources.

Over the years he had held a close tab on what happened at Baker Street. It was, after all, one of the few things that still tied him to London, and the only place he could ever call his home. John had taken up a job at a surgery in Kensington. Since Sherlock left he had made exactly one entry on his blog, informing his readers that he wouldn't make any more. He had met some woman named Mary, and apparently they had been deeply involved. At that point Sherlock had been in Romania, wrapped up in his work, but he still managed to find time to feel abandoned. What a joke. When she died from cancer, just a year later, he got a call from Mycroft saying that John was quite torn up about it. The tone of his voice indicated that something was wrong, very wrong, and his first instinct told him to go back to Baker Street and to be with the man. Not that he could do anything to make his mourning go away, but still. It was John, after all.

After that Sherlock set his priorities straight. He wanted to go back, and that as soon as possible. His search after Mr Moran and the other remains of Moriartys organisation intensified. No stray cases to make time go by, no rest, no playing nice. Two men were arrested making their way into Colombia, and he personally caught and interrogated a man in Moscow. Certain things came to light, and led him back to the very place he had fled. London.

He met up with Mycroft, and with a few arrangements he had quite a sizable group from the Secret Service under his command. After that things happened very quickly, once put in motion. After some careful planning most of the criminals were arrested. Only dear Mr Moran remained on free foot. Initially Sherlock told himself that he could only go back to Baker Street once the case was closed, but then again, it was likely that Mr Moran would have gone into exile and would take years to find. He could even be dead. And Baker Street was so temptingly close.

It was possible that John would make an attempt on his life when he saw him. He was a soldier, after all, and had quite a temper. Sherlock smiled fondly at himself. It wouldn't be too bad to die at the hands of his favourite doctor. Naturally there were more desirable and likely scenarios, but he still considered all the alternatives. Best to be prepared. He seated himself in a chair by the fireplace and started to compose a little speech in his head. He wasn't entirely sure if it was to defend himself or to apologize. It wasn't going too well. Being back home and updating all data about the flat was quite distracting. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. The chair smelled like John. That shouldn't have been distracting, but it was.

At four fifty eight he heard the front door unlock and open, and then that familiar gait in the stairs. He decided to remain sitting and wait for John's reaction when he entered. But of course, when he heard fumbling with keys at the door to the flat, he couldn't contain himself and feverishly flew up. They met in the hallway.

John was as he wanted him to be. Almost. Sherlock didn't know what to do, he had always been awkward when it came to social interaction, and this surely was an awkward situation. He panicked of sorts, and in a split second he made quick fragmentary deductions about the man in front of him. John was a lot thinner, his limp was worse than ever and there were new lines around his eyes. It was as if he had aged a decade since last time. Of course, Sherlock knew that he himself didn't exactly look as young and fresh faced as he used to, but those three years truly had taken their toll on John.

The speech he had prepared had utterly gone from his mind in some mysterious way, and he barely managed to whisper his name, John. At that John went white as a ghost, his knees buckled and he tumbled to the floor before Sherlock could catch him. With slightly trembling hands he heaved the lifeless body up against him and carried him to the sofa. Warmth soaked through his shirt, and he didn't want to let go. He put John down on the sofa, and sat on the floor beside and held his hand. He knew it probably looked ridiculously sentimental, but he found himself unwilling to do anything else. For minutes he just sat and watched the unconscious man. Then there were a groan, and a shudder, and grey eyes looking back at him.

"You bastard." Johns voice was low and raw. "You were alive. All this time."

"John." Sherlock found himself lacking words yet again, and resisted an urge to throw himself at the man. John grasped at his hand, as if wanting to confirm that it really was him.

"You should have told me. Why did you just…why?"

"John. I had too. They would have come after you if they knew I was alive. It was the only way."

"I thought you were dead. For years. You just were gone. Do you know what it feels like losing some one like that?"

"No."

"Not good." Sherlock laughed breathlessly at that. Things were going a lot better than he thought it would. He still had a home. He still had John.


End file.
